


The Static in Our Signals

by littlemel



Category: Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemel/pseuds/littlemel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had been whispers in the zones for weeks already about these new droids, how they were supposedly completely passable for human.  Gerard doesn't believe it until the night he sees Zoid at HyperThrust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Static in Our Signals

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://no-tags.livejournal.com/profile)[**no_tags**](http://no-tags.livejournal.com/) fic exchange, with love & thanks to Sally and Steph for their tireless hand-holding, encouragement, and inspiration. There is also gorgeous (spoilery!) art [here](http://apocalypse-me.livejournal.com/267540.html?format=light) that I love so much it's ridiculous. Title from "Rabbit Ears" by Pompeii. Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/no_tags/43427.html), January 17, 2011.

The red light district is tucked away in the heart of Zone 6, at the end of a labyrinth of unnamed streets. All neon-buzz and bass-thump from the clubs and bars, saccharine voices cat-calling the passers-by. _Heeeeey motorbaby, you lookin' for a crash queen tonight?_

Gerard doesn't hook in 6--he knows better than to shit where he eats. There are too many brothels out here, anyway. Too many old pros just trying to get by, too many hungry-eyed runaways subbing madams for mothers. Too much politics over turf and territory, over who belonged where, and to whom.

Eye contact is as good as a deal out here, so he keeps his head down and keeps walking. If he's gonna pay not to be alone tonight, he's gonna blow his carbons on a night with Zoid.

*

Rumor in the zones is that Madam Morningwood, who runs Electric Ladyland, has an in somewhere in Battery City. She'd have to, to get the kinds of quality droids she gets.

There are a handful of bot brothels in the district, but Madam Morningwood's girls are always newer models, mostly ones that BLI rejected for some minor flaw in their chips, or that became obsolete before they even left the factory floor.

Frank and Ray try to explain to Gerard how it works, but it doesn’t go very well.

"The droids come pre-wired for customer service and human interaction," Frank says through a mouthful of Power Pup. “That’s what they’re built for.”

"So all you really have to do is disable the GPS, wipe out the BLI spyware, and rewrite some of the behavioral code," Ray chimes in.

"Or if it's an older model," Frank says, "Replace the motherboard."

Ray grunts in agreement. “Yeah, with the older ones you kind of have to start from scratch, because the code’s so convoluted. It’s cleaner with the newer models. A good hacker can get in there and mod the code so it randomizes differently for each droid.”

“So they have like, personalities.” Frank licks his fork. “Get it?”

Gerard doesn’t, but he nods anyway.

But he also still didn't get why, exactly, BLI would manufacture anatomically correct droids in the first place. He decides he probably doesn't want to know, even if it's probably not much worse than what they end up being used for out here.

*

Zoid was part of Madam Morningwood's last shipment, one of five "biobots" that BLI had marked for destruction because of faulty wiring. There had been whispers in the zones for weeks already about these new droids, how they were supposedly completely passable for human.

Gerard doesn't believe it until the night he sees Zoid at HyperThrust.

He's halfway to the door for a nicstick when he sees her at the bar. Her left arm is covered in bright ink from shoulder to forearm, her skirt a few inches short of decent. No different from the dozen other girls flitting around her, except for the way she sizes up everyone who walks past, instead of preening for them. There's something... _captivating_ about her, some unidentifiable thing that keeps drawing Gerard's eyes back to her.

He makes himself look away before she catches him staring, and turns back towards the dance floor. He needs to find Mikey, because Mikey knows everybody. He knows everybody’s name, at least.

Gerard finds him hovering at the edge of the dance floor, his head bobbing to the beat, and pokes him in the ribs. Mikey jerks away with a scowl.

"What was that for?"

"'cause I felt like it," Gerard grins. He juts his chin towards the bar, where the mystery girl is talking up a tall guy with close-cropped blue hair. "Who is that?"

"The guy with the hair?" Mikey gestures vaguely at his own head.

"No, the girl." Gerard watches her flip her hair over her shoulder and drop her eyes to the bar top, only to raise them again coyly, her smile slow. She puts on a good show, but Gerard knows the routine. It's all practiced, precise. Whoever she is, she's definitely on the job tonight.

“Are you serious?” Mikey asks. His expression, when Gerard looks back at him, is mostly unreadable, but he definitely looks like he really, really wants to laugh.

"Yes...?” Gerard hates feeling like he doesn’t get the joke, especially when he's sure he's the butt of it.

“You think she’s pretty?” Mikey teases, batting his eyelashes and drawing out the last word. His mouth twitches at the corner.

“Maybe,” Gerard says with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. Now he's annoyed. He glances over at the bar again, watches her touch the blue-haired guy's arm as she laughs. A spark of heat flares in the middle of Gerard's chest, unexpected and unwelcome. What the fuck.

"Dude, she's a droid!" Mikey snorts. "A sexbot. One of Chantal's new girls. I think her name is Zoid."

"Thanks, Mikey," Gerard grumbles, his face burning.

He sulks back into the shadows, watching Zoid walk towards the door with her trick. Gerard’s hand goes to his pocket, but there's nothing in there except lint, and not much of that, either.

The door swings closed behind Zoid, and Gerard pushes away from the wall, into the throng of bodies pressed together on the dance floor. Pickpocketing makes him feel shittier than hooking ever did, but it's quicker and easier, and he's suddenly very much in need of some fast cash.

*

It's two more weeks, give or take, before Gerard not only saves up the carbons, but works up the courage to walk through the red door of Electric Ladyland.

Madam Morningwood smiles when she sees him, a few degrees warmer than auto-pilot. “Hey there, motorkid.”

They know each other casually, the way petty criminals usually do. They’ve helped each other out of a few jams over the years. Gerard returns the smile nervously. His palms are wet.

“Hey Chantal.”

She quirks her eyebrow, lighting a pink nicstick. “You here on business or pleasure?”

“Um.” Gerard shifts his weight, clears his throat. Funny how different things feel from the other side.

Chantal giggles, aiming a plume of smoke at the low ceiling. “Pleasure it is. You wouldn’t be blushing like that if it was business.”

“Ha, busted.” He runs his clammy hands over his jeans

She perks up. “Are you willing to work in trade? Because I’ve got a couple older girls in need of a tune-up. Maybe Frank or Ray-”

Gerard holds up his hands with a laugh. “I am not authorized to negotiate on behalf of anyone else’s dick, sorry.”

“Well, shit. Guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way.” Chantal sits up straighter, pulls a pen from behind her ear and a notebook from the desk. “Two questions, then: how much have you got, and what’d you have in mind?”

Gerard lays his carbons out on the desk. He didn't count it, but it’s definitely more than he’s had all at once in a while. “I want whatever this’ll get me with Zoid.”

Chantal nods, and Gerard watches her count out the money, then scribble something in her notebook. “You’re a little short on c's for it, but I’ll give you full access for two whole hours ‘cause we’re friends.” She stubs out her nicstick and holds out her hand. “Deal?”

A flutter of excitement tickles behind Gerard’s navel as his fingers close over hers. “Deal.”

*

It's easy enough, at first, to keep in mind that Zoid's a companion. That Gerard's usually the one getting paid for this, not the one doing the paying. That he probably could’ve kept himself and the rest of the guys fed and watered for a week with all the carbons he just forked over to be in this room with her.

What Gerard has a hard time remembering, as he watches Zoid move through the cramped room, is that she's a droid. Even the room itself makes it hard to tell. He was expecting something cold and drab, something blank. But she's got a big, bright quilt on the bed, books lined up neatly on a small shelf, art on the walls.

He stops in front of a digital frame, displaying a single, torn page from "I Was Killing When Killing Wasn't Cool." Gerard blinks dumbly at the frame, then over at Zoid. This can't be coincidence.

She steps up next to him, letting their shoulders brush. "Al Columbia. Do you know his stuff?"

"Holy shit, are you kidding? I think he's amazing."

If Gerard didn't know better he'd swear Zoid looks sort of pleased with herself.

"Music?" she asks, reaching for a small radio on the dresser. Gerard half-shrugs, half-nods, and Zoid switches it on, twisting the dial until she hits a sound that's more music than static. Her elbow knocks the lampshade off-kilter when she draws her arm back.

“Bad wiring,” she says, and smiles sheepishly as she straightens the shade. She sits on the edge of the bed. "Makes me clumsy."

Gerard smiles back, unexpectedly charmed. The comic print he could chalk up to some kind of software thing based on info Chantal fed her, but this was just Zoid being Zoid. And well, he wasn't prepared to maybe actually _like_ her.

"I've got a bum ankle," he offers, and Zoid's smile widens.

She's got a dimple in her cheek. The corners of her eyes even crinkle. Even up close, he almost can't tell, except for a small, nearly undetectable seam in her neck, where her memory chip sits. There'll be another one under her shirt, he knows, for her motherboard. Still, the detail in her design is incredible. She's beautiful, and beautifully crafted. Next time, Gerard's bringing his pencils.

He doesn't fuck much for fun anymore; the job makes him too quick to disconnect, to tune out. But it's the only way, and any hooker or hustler worth their carbons would say the same. There needs to be rules--lessons learned the hard way (no personal information, keep eye contact to a minimum) as well as the boundaries that had been around probably as long as the profession itself (no kissing). Let your body respond and react, but keep your head and your heart carefully guarded. Make the trick believe it, but never buy into your own bullshit.

Just because Gerard is buying this time instead of selling shouldn't change any of that. If anything, it should make him the perfect trick.

And then Zoid straddles his lap and kisses him, and Gerard forgets everything he thought he knew.

*

Ray asks him, the next morning, how it was. Cautiously curious as they stand side-by-side in back of the diner, pissing into the brush. The whole thing was just ridiculous enough for Gerard to offer himself up for mockery about, so he made no secret about where he was headed the night before.

"It was..." Gerard pauses, stealing the few seconds when the wind kicks up to burrow his nose under his scarf and buy himself time to think. He ends up going with, "Good. Like, the actual, you know, sex part was good. And she was... I don't know. She was nice. I kept forgetting she's a droid, so that was kind of weird. Oh, and- what the fuck, she _kissed me_."

Ray coughs dryly into the crook of his elbow, then shakes off and zips up. "You know, I heard about that, that the biogirls really are all-access. Was she a good kisser?"

Gerard laughs. "Yeah, actually."

"Shit, then I might have to make a trip downtown!" Ray pulls the door open and holds it for Gerard. "But do I even want to know how much last night cost?"

"Definitely not." Gerard lowers his voice as they duck inside. Mikey and Frank are still asleep. "But hey, Chantal said she's got some droids that need tune ups. Offer to work it in trade, she'll go for it."

"Yeah?" Gerard nods, and so does Ray. "Cool, man, thanks. Did you see any of the other biogirls? Zoid's pretty, but she's not really my type. And she's still a girl you slept with. I don't want your sloppy seconds."

"But I've seen you kiss Frank," Gerard says, chuckling when Ray blushes. He's more relieved than he wants to admit, though, that Ray would want a different girl.

This is bad.

*

And then it gets worse.

Gerard gets greedy and impatient, sweet-talking Chantal out of her no-less-than-an-hour rule once or twice when he just _can't wait_ the few extra days to make the rest of the money. And she's starting to ask questions about where all this cash is coming from.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the business," she says on his fourth or fifth visit. "And I know Zoid's a hot little potato, but she's still a droid, and you're still my friend. Just. Keep in mind that lesser men than you have bankrupted themselves over biobots like her. That's all I'm saying."

Gerard brushes her off with a big smile and a wet kiss on the cheek. "I got this," he assures her.

He's lying, and he's pretty sure they both know it. She just doesn't understand. None of them do.

Last time he brought up Zoid, Frank rolled his eyes and lectured Gerard for twenty minutes about pattern recognition and correlations, facial and vocal recognition software, the illusion of emotion versus the real thing.

"In plain English," Frank finally said, "she's programmed to like you."

"In plain English," Gerard slapped on a smirk that he hoped was good-natured, and tried to keep the bite out of his voice, "you're an asshole."

Frank's smile was weary and crooked. "At least we can agree on that."

Gerard knows Frank only does shit like that because he cares, but sometimes all he ends up doing is making Gerard feel stupid, or pissing him off, and sometimes both. This was one of those times.

When he tells Zoid about what Frank said, she looks sad. "He's not wrong," she says softly. Gerard starts to pull away, but she kisses him before he can duck out. "But he's not right, either."

*

The next time Gerard goes to Electric Ladyland, Cherri Cola walks out out just as Gerard's reaching for the door.

"Hey!" Gerard grabs him in a one-armed hug, too surprised to bother being embarrassed at where they just crossed paths. "The fuck are you doing all the way out here? And why didn't you tell me you were heading out this way?"

"Just came to see if the rumors were true," Cherri Cola laughs, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "You know they're talking about this place all the way in Zone 2?"

"No shit... heh."

A tiny pang of worry tugs at Gerard's gut, because the closer to Battery City a rumor gets, the more likely BLI is to send dracs out into the zones to "investigate."

Just one more reason Gerard shouldn't be here. One more reason he never should've come back, not after the first time or any of the times after. Because now he _cares_ , and that makes it more dangerous for all of them.

"I also hear _you're_ a pretty frequent flyer..."

 _There_ 's the flush of embarrassment. Gerard does his best to laugh it off. "What can I say? Chantal's got quality droids, man."

Cherri Cola smiles, glancing back at the closed door. "Yeah, well, Chantal's a quality gal."

Gerard knows you don't end up running a brothel unless you've worked in one. He just assumed Chantal was retired. Most madams are, but he's also heard that some of them keep a small roster of favorite clients.

"So hey, I gotta run-" Cherri Cola says hastily. "You going to the Nuts & Boltholes festival this year?"

"Yeah, I should be there."

"I'll look for you!"

Cherri Cola waves and takes off down the block. Gerard pushes the door open and steps into Electric Ladyland's small, dim lobby.

"You can go on up," Chantal says, barely glancing up from her datebook when Gerard slides a neat stack of bills across the desk. She looks distracted, and definitely a little rumpled.

Gerard grins, mumbles out a quick thanks and takes the stairs two at a time.

"Thirty minutes!" she yells up after him.

*

It's not enough. It's never enough anymore. He's back for the seventh time in as many weeks, after two days of semi-honest work delivering magazines to fuel stations in the outermost parts of 6.

Chantal's refusing to bend her hour-rule for him anymore after today, and tricks are getting harder to come by without traveling further into Zone 5. Gerard and Zoid are racing the clock, _tick-tick-tick_ ing down the last five minutes of the 45 he paid for.

"Come to HyperThrust on Wednesday," Zoid whispers. "Dances are free as long as you don't touch."

Gerard groans, running his hands greedily over her hips. It's not _fair_. None of it is any fucking fair. But he nods, grunts _okay, yeah, yes_ against her collarbone as he spills into her, and kisses her just because he can.

*

The line outside HyperThrust is too short, and way too human. Gerard only sees a few droids, and none of Chantal's. Maybe he got the days mixed up? But no, he's sure it's Wednesday.

He doesn't know the guy working the door, so he drops 5c's to get inside and makes a quick round, checking all of Zoid's usual spots, but he doesn't see her. She should be here. Suddenly no one looks familiar.

Gerard heads for the door, lights a nicstick when he hits the sidewalk. He's just being paranoid. Zoid's probably back at the house, with a client. It's not exactly a comforting thought, but it's still the most likely explanation.

The thing is that the Trans Am's antennae still needs to be replaced from when they ran into those dracs--literally--last month, so the radio doesn't pick up much more than static. Gerard's been incommunicado since he left for Nuts & Boltholes over the weekend, and a lot of shit can happen in four or five days.

But festivals mean lots of zonerunners, and lots of cheap booze, and _that_ means lots of cash in Gerard's pocket. It's almost midnight now, and he's got enough carbons to spend the rest of the night with Zoid, until they shut things down at dawn. He quickens his step.

As soon as he rounds the corner, Gerard knows something's wrong. The whole building is dark, and even from half a block away he can see that the door's hanging crookedly off one hinge like a loose tooth. He takes off running, his heart thumping against his ribs.

His whole chest squeezes painfully when he sees the trashed lobby.

"Chantal?" he calls. His voice comes out high, scared, echoing off the walls. "Hello?"

Nothing. He walks around the front desk, breath held, afraid he might find her sprawled out on the floor. Unconscious if he's lucky, worse if neither of them is. But today must be everybody's lucky fucking day, because there's nothing behind the desk but a pen cap and a couple of dust bunnies.

He doesn't let down his guard enough to be relieved. Instead he sucks in another uneven breath and heads for the stairs. Halfway up he can see that all the doors have been kicked in, and the panic propels him up up up, to the second door on the right, painted bright yellow. Zoid's room.

"Zoid?" he whispers. He pushes the door open slowly, a fear-sour taste in his mouth, thick in the back of his throat. "Are you-"

He stops when he sees her boot, sticking out from the space between the dresser and the bed. The door smacks against the wall when he shoves it open the rest of the way. He all but trips over his own feet to get to her, his vision gone blurry and wet.

Her memory chip's been ripped out in a mess of wires, her motherboard sitting exposed on her chest. One of her arms is half torn off, hanging by the faulty wires that sent her out here in the first goddamn place. The room stinks like burnt rubber and scorched metal, acrid and hot. Gerard's stomach churns, heaves. He collapses on the floor next to Zoid and hauls her gently into his lap, cradling her as best he can. She lolls in his arms, limp as a ragdoll.

"Zoid..." He presses his wet face to hers, but there's no hum, no buzz, no _life_. His breath hitches in, sharp and jagged as a rusty blade. He has no idea what to do, and there's really nothing left to say.

"FUCK." Gerard squeezes his eyes shut and kisses the spot behind her ear, ignoring the scrape of torn wires across his chin. He takes a couple of hard, deep breaths and tightens his arms around her. He can't just leave her here, like she's scrap metal. "Fuck."

Six nights ago he was throwing her over his shoulder just like this, both of them laughing as he laid her out on the bed and settled between her legs. And then she gave him the ultimate cheat code, that dances were free and she'd be at HyperThrust Wednesday night. He didn't even realize, at the time, what that even meant. It meant she wanted to see him without any money changing hands. It meant she _wanted_ to see him. Gerard's shoulders sag a little.

He peeks into a few other rooms as he stumbles past their open doors, and sees more of the same: torn-open panels, ripped-out chips, limbs bent at wrong angles. There must have been a raid. He thinks back to the night he bumped into Cherri Cola. _You know they're talking about this place all the way in Zone 2?_ News must have reached Battery City.

It takes Gerard forever to get down the narrow, creaky stairs with her, sweating and swearing the whole way. Fucking _dracs_. Fucking BLI. He props Zoid up against the front desk, out of sight from the street, and rests his forehead against hers while he catches his breath. Six nights ago he did this, too, while she twisted her hand in his hair.

"Be right back," he pants after a minute, his breathing as even as he thinks it's gonna get right now. He's all hopped up on adrenaline, fueled by grief and fear and blind, stupid rage.

The Trans Am is two blocks east. He sprints the whole way, spins up a huge cloud of dust before the tires catch and he squeals out into the street.

*

Gerard gets her loaded into the car and doesn't think twice about where to aim his headlights.

Frank can fix anything. Frank will know what to do.

*

Gerard's yelling even as he reaches for the diner doors. "Frank?"

There are lights on but Gerard has no idea who's here. He doesn't see Mikey's bike, but that doesn't really mean anything.

Frank hurries out of the back, wiping his hands on a towel. "When did you get back?" He starts to smile, but it freezes and fades when he sees Gerard's face. "What's wrong?"

Gerard waves for Frank for follow him and starts for the door again. Frank falls into step beside him. "It's Zoid."

The Trans Am's still idling, Zoid still seatbelted in. Frank leans in through the passenger window, squinting at Zoid through the weak glare of the car's overhead light.

"Fucking dracs," he sighs, shaking his head. "Bunch of sloppy motherfuckers."

"Can you- can you fix her?" Gerard slips back behind the wheel. Frank hesitates, and Gerard's heart sinks.

"Let's bring her inside," Frank says. "Lemme get a better look at the damage."

Gerard turns off the ignition and unbuckles Zoid's belt. Frank opens the door and tucks his shoulder under her arm, easing her out of the car as gently as if she was a real, human girl. Gerard jogs around the front of the car to wedge himself under her other arm, and flashes Frank a grateful smile.

They walk her inside and set her in one of the diner booths, propping her up against the back of the bench. Gerard sits across from her, chewing his lip while Frank examines her like a doctor in an emergency room.

"Well?" Gerard prods. He can feel the adrenaline starting to wear off now that he's stopped moving, exhaustion beginning to creep in around the edges. He just needs to know what kind of stupor he's going end up in for the next handful of hours.

Frank sits back on his haunches, his face drawn. "I- I can't fix this," he says helplessly. "I don't have the right tools, we don't have the right parts..."

Gerard nods. He feels numb. Drained. He knew this was coming

"And even if I did," Frank continues, "her memory's gone. Her motherboard's been blasted. It wouldn't be her, Gee. "

"I know." Gerard waits for more tears to come, or the anger to well up again, but he just sits and stares at Zoid's hands, splayed lifelessly on the table.

"I am so fucking sorry."

Gerard had known back at the house that she was gone. He knew before he hauled her down the stairs and into his car and halfway across the desert. He knew when he touched her. Before he touched her, even--he knew when he saw the wires in her neck, red and blue, like exposed veins.

"I don't... I don't know what to do with her," Gerard says. "With her... body." Maybe he shouldn't have brought her here, but he couldn't have left her there, either.

Frank stands up, pulls a slightly exaggerated contemplative face. "We could bury her. Same as we'd do for anyone else any of us loved. I mean, right?" He lays a hand on Gerard's shoulder and squeezes lightly.

"Yeah, I- yeah. Thank you, Frankie."

*

A week later Gerard's making the rounds on the outskirts of 6 again, doing magazine deliveries. It's hardly worth the carbons, what with all the fuel he burns. But he had something he needed to do out here anyway.

Everyone in the zones knows about the mailbox. It's situated on the very edge of 6, where the zones give way to no-man's land. Legend has it that every letter that gets dropped in there gets delivered to its recipient, no matter who or what or where they are--including the dead.

Frank drives out here a couple times a year with a stack of letters to lost friends and family. Gerard and Mikey have come out here together a few times to leave letters for their parents and grandparents. Ray claims not to buy into it, but Gerard's pretty sure he saw Ray put a letter in there once.

Gerard makes his last delivery just before sunset. The alarms are sounding when he parks the car at the milepost and heads due west. The sky is still glowing copper-pink along the horizon by the time he gets to the mailbox, clutching his battered sketchpad.

He sits with his back against the dropbox and carefully tears out the very last page, a sketch of Zoid he started the one time he remembered to actually bring his sketchpad and pencils. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed in his black t-shirt, her hair knotted up from his hands. Laughing at something he said. He wishes he could remember what it was. Zoid would remember, of course.

He's been trying to figure out what he wants to say for days, but only ever comes up with _i love you_ and _i'm sorry_. Hopefully that's enough. He letters the words carefully and folds the page into fourths, writes "z01d"--her biobot ID--on one side and pushes to his feet.

He presses his lips to her name and drops the paper into the slot.


End file.
